Four Crashes and a Break-Up
"Launchpad Unlimited" was the name over Launchpad's wooden house. Working for Mr. McDuck, spending a fortune on airplanes and airplane repairs, didn't leave much for housing. Not that Launchpad wanted a large house, or needed one.
The hangar next to the garage was another story. Launchpad's aircraft, at least the aircraft in working order, were there. There was the biplane they had flown in, the joyrider. There was a large four engine airplane with an enormous propeller. There was even a jet and a helicopter. Launchpad could fly anything, it was only landing that was a problem.
Sharona had dressed up for her 'date,' as she carefully walked up and rang the bell.
Launchpad in tie, usual jacket, scarf and cap greeted her.
"Hey Sharona," he joked.
Instead of rolling her eyes, she smiled. Although, momentarily, she remembered the married man who had greeted her in the same way, during a brief romance in "Mr. Monk takes a Vacation."
"Let's get rolling," added Launchpad. With that, he tripped across threshold, and crashed outside the door.
They both laughed.
They boarded the joyrider. Launchpad turned red.
"I can't get it to move."
"You forgot to take out the wheel blocks," Sharona observed. "I'll get them."
"We'll get them for yous," offered a seemingly kindly old dog-faced lady, and a dog-faced old gentleman.
They had happened by, seemingly by coincidence, and were eager to do their good deed. The old lady was very ugly, overweight with stubble on her face. She wore a placard with a number on it over her dress. Apparently, someone had taken a bite out of it. The unshaven old gentleman wore a very baggy suit, with numbered bill.
The two amiable strangers hovered around the plane for a couple minutes, then took out the wheel blocks.
Launchpad made a perfect takeoff.
"Nice to know there are still some friendly folks in the world," Launchpad observed.
"Yes, they were," said Sharona, who seemed suspicious.
They flew around Duckburg, peacefully by Launchpad's standards. A couple of hairpin turns, and a loop by the Duckburg Bay Bridge, and of course, the Double Decker Treetop Bebop Tuck and Roll, to show off, but the flight was otherwise normal.
"Your pilot has finished your tour of Duckburg," Launchpad announced into a surplusage microphone. "We will now make a smooth landing, and have dinner. For some reason, crashes seem to make people loose their appetites."
Launchpad made an easy approach to a small airstrip on the far side of Duckburg Bay.
Until the propeller fell off.
"Uh-oh," remarked Launchpad, as they began to dive. "I thought I fixed it."
"WELL YOU DIDN'T," screamed Sharona, as they plunged into a tale spin.
They crashed just beyond the end of the runway. At a right angle to the ground. The joyrider, was, to all appearances, a total wreck. Yet Launchpad emerged from the smashed plane, dusty but uninjured. Aside from being terribly jarred, slightly cut and bruised, Sharona was also alright.
"Any crash you can stumble away from," said Launchpad, disorientated, "is a good one."
Sharona looked hard for a compliment.
"I can't believe no one ever gets seriously hurt when you crash," was the best she could dredge up.
"You're talking to the king of wings," Launchpad bragged, as they walked toward the restaurant.
"Hey," said a short paramedic, with old style ambulance parked on the runway. "You better come with me, you looks hurt."
"Thanks," said Sharona, "but we're good."
Maybe it was the helicopter hat, or maybe it was another one of those placards with the numbers on it, but Sharona found him to be somewhat suspicious.
The restaurant was Launchpad's favorite dive, "The Pilot's Crash Pad." The place specialized in hamburgers, hot dogs, fries, nachos and doritos, all served in generous portions. Parts of famous aircrafts, or rather the wreck of famous aircraft, were displayed on the wall. Launchpad was especially proud of the wheel of the "Uncrashable Hindentanic," which hung above their booth. He, of course, was the one who crashed the flaming airship, straight into an iceberg. He told Sharona, in case she hadn't heard.
Sharona was almost speechless. But when Launchpad wasn't looking, she rolled her eyes.
The conservation soon improved. Sharona was fascinated by Launchpad's history. His lifelong commitment to the Junior Woodchucks, and his status as all-time merit badge champion. His youth in his parent's air troupe, and his disgrace in a botched "Cattle rustle hustle." The first crash with Mr. McD and a flight through the center of the earth, his many other adventures and heroic exploits. As action-packed as a typical after-school cartoon, to Sharona's way of thinking.
Launchpad, in turn was interested to hear of Sharona's many misadventures with the brilliant but troubled Adrian Monk. Her trials raising Benji alone, and her conflicts with her sister and mother. It seemed to Launchpad, to be a life very grounded in reality.
His reflections were interrupted by the appearance of a fellow pilot. Tall, thin, dog-faced, with a couple days stubble, the beatnik pilot wore dark glasses and yet another one of those numbered placards across his uniform.
"Bebop, bebop, come dance with me until you drop," hummed the pilot, taking Sharona by surprise and taking her for a dance.
"Let go," ordered Sharona, pushing the pilot away.
The beatnik fell backward into Launchpad (who had been going to Sharona's rescue), Launchpad stumbled into Sharona, and the two of them fell into a dessert trolley.
The entire restaurant stopped to laugh at them.
"That's it," announced a dog-faced waiter.
He was tall, unshaven, missing a tooth, wearing suit and numbered placard.
"I'ms the bouncer, and you two are out of here."
"Wait, what's this?" asked another, taller dog-faced man wearing a black tuxedo, and one of those numbered notices. "I'm the manager, and I say they's stay. It was only an accident."
"We'd better go," apologized Sharona, throughly embarrassed and trying to get the black forest cake out of her hair.
"I'm never going to complain about Adrian humiliating me again," she muttered, as they left the restaurant. "At least for a couple of weeks."
"Uh, I better call a cab," said Launchpad, dejected.
"No needs," said a unknown, short dog-faced man, again with black mask around his eyes and also sporting a numbered placard across his checkered suit. "Big Time . . . er . . . Goodfellow Motors is gonna give yous a free car. As our super surprise giveaway contest. Here you are . . . the keys to a new corvette."
Mr. Goodfellow gave them a key, a bill of sale, and a year's insurance (according to the policy, Launchpad paid $30,000 a year for basic automobile insurance).
"What do you know?" Launchpad boasted, as Mr. Goodfellow left. "It isn't a plane, but it'll do."
Soon he and Sharona were comfortably on the road to Duckburg. But not for long.
In the bushes, where the highway hugged the coast of the bay, hid the lady, the gentleman, the ambulance driver, the pilot, the bouncer, the manager, and Mr. Goodfellow. A.K.A. Burger, Baggy, Baby Face, Bugle, Bouncer, Bank Job, and Big Time Beagle.
"I say we shoulds have put dynamite in the car," objected Bank Job.
"Yeah, bro," put in Bugle.
"You said it," added Baby Face.
"Listen yous, we want to catch 'em and hold 'em hostage," put in Big Time. "Yous messed up all our other chances, now you gotta listen to me.
"Yeah," said Burger and Bouncer.
"Duh, uh, yeah," added Baggy.
"O.K." Bank Job acquiesced. "Ma wants them caught, and if this works, they'll be caught. Though the dynamite would stun them better so they wouldn'ts run."
"We wants them alive," Big Time argued.
"When was the lasts time dynamite killed anyone? Not unless your holding it, or right next to it or something. A small stick won't hurt them."
"The goil's from San Francisco. It's too risky."
They were interrupted mid-argument by the hum of the sports car. Big Time pushed down the lever, and the dynamite he planted above the road caused a landslide.
The road slid out into Duckburg Bay, and the car crashed right into the water.
Sharona and Launchpad got out of the car alright, but . . . .
"Help!" yelled Launchpad. "I can't swim."
Sharona sighed and, grabbing his scarf, pulled Launchpad to shore.
"Thanks," he gasped.
"Hullo down there," said a voice through a megaphone.
It was the Duckburg Police. A cruiser had been attracted by the noise. The Beagle Boys, their chance ruined by the fuzz, had retreated to their hideout.
"We'll be up in a minute," said Launchpad, never one to let disaster let him down. "Maybe we can hitch a ride to the ice rink."
Sharona shuddered.
"No way," she said, her temper boiling over. "You can't do anything without crashing. No wonder Mr. McDuck fired you. I'd fire you. You're worse than useless, you . . . can't even swim.
"Lot's of people can't swim," commented Launchpad. "And, for your information, I'm gonna take lessons."
"You're a duck," scoffed Sharona. "What kind of duck can't swim?"
"That has nothing to do with it," Launchpad retorted. "Next thing your gonna do is call Duckworth color blind."
"You know, your right. Being a duck has nothing to do with it, because you're more of a turkey than a duck anyhow."
With that, Sharona climbed up the hill, and climbed in with the police. She left Launchpad on the beach, seeing red.
"You wouldn't know a real hero if it hit you on the head," he returned.